Page 12 of Starside

She’s staring at the group of ash-crowned challengers sitting on the dark platform, in front of a newly started fire. They’re drinking wine they must have brought themselves, because nothing that nice is sold anywhere close to here, even at the carts. Discarded bottles have gathered at their feet, over the blood-stained ground. The glass itself is worth something. I bury the urge to collect it. To make it into something I can sell.

Some challengers sit with women in their laps. Some are already passed out in the mud. Some aren’t challengers at all.

Half the king’s guard is here, standing and celebrating as if they each managed to gain a spot on the platform when it counted. My fists lock when I see them. My skin prickles with long-held fury.

Their leader sits in front of them, his massive sword dug into the dirt beside him. It’s standing on its own.

It’s the most valuable weapon on this side of the gates. I instinctually contemplate how much it would go for in the desert markets …

Useless, really. For even if it wasn’t protected by knights, and Harlan Raker himself, I couldn’t claim it.

I would have to be more powerful than Raker. An ancient sword isn’t chosen; it’s claimed by both sides. Earned.

As if sensing my notice of his weapon, Harlan Raker’s head snaps up.

For a moment, the air seems to still. A chill licks down my spine. Fear. A creature encountering its species’ greatest predator. A ruthless killer. His hood casts his entire face in shadow, even the mask doesn’t glimmer. He would slay me where I stand if it wasn’t against the rules. If it was worth his time at all.

My mind says to look away. To step back into the shadows of the alley.

But I remember that day in the rain. The day I begged him for mercy. I begged him to let me go.

He didn’t.

I don’t drop my gaze, even if I can’t see his eyes. Mine narrow as if they could convey even a fraction of my hatred for him.

The bastard doesn’t even look fazed. He doesn’t look anything. Of course he doesn’t. I can’t see his face, but his unbothered posture shows enough. Someone taps him on the shoulder, and finally he turns, as if I’ve already been forgotten. As if he doesn’t remember me in the first place.

“Chances are he kills one of us,” Zane says, almost casually, motioning toward Raker. He’s by my side now.

Kira gives him an incredulous look.

Zane only lifts a shoulder. “It’s true. No use in pretending it isn’t.”

He’s right. Harlan Raker once slayed an entire uprising himself. A hundred people against him, and he is said to have emerged without even a drop of blood on his armor. His movements were so precise, his blade so sharp, that it looked like he hadn’t been to battle at all, according to the few merchants who passed through town, leaving behind gossip.

But he’s not the only one with Starside steel going into the Culling. I’ll convince Stellan to let me bring his dagger. He’s angry … but he always promised that one day it would be mine.

Stellan likes lists. He makes one every morning of all our tasks and orders. On my way home, I make one of all the reasons he should help me.

Revelers stumble through the streets. The ash arc earns me a few bowing heads, and compliments, and—mostly—bets on how long I’ll last in the Culling. Not long at all, apparently. No one tries to steal my dagger, though, which is a marked improvement from my typical walk home.

I don’t hear Stellan in his forge, even though he locks himself in there all night whenever we get in an argument. Maybe he’s decided to forgive me, I think, hope flaring in my chest. Maybe he’s going to offer me the dagger. Maybe I won’t need the list, which would be good, because it wasn’t all that convincing to begin with.

I don’t want to part on bad terms. I don’t want him to sit here in this house alone, hating me.

“Stellan?” I say, floorboards creaking as I inch through the house. The hearth has gone dark. I use the poker to brush a layer of cinder away, uncovering the few glowing embers. I add some kindling and blow softly, gritting my teeth like I always do whenever I’m near fire. The logs flame.

I turn around, thinking he must have already gone to bed, and gasp.

Stellan is lying in the center of the room in a pool of blood.

Roaring fills the world. I’m on my knees beside him, feeling around for where he’s hurt, my fingers finding gaping skin like screaming mouths. My hands slip in the blood. There’s so much of it. I need help, I—

His hand comes over mine. It’s cold.

“I—”

“Let me speak, child,” he says. His words are labored, as if he’s fought to stay conscious. How long has he been on this cold floor, in the dark? How long has he waited for me to come home?